


lie back and think of Morporkia

by malfaisant



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Questionable Diplomacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28817046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant
Summary: “Eccentric traditions,” Vimes repeated, one hand firmly massaging his temple.
Relationships: Havelock Vetinari/Samuel Vimes
Comments: 18
Kudos: 126





	lie back and think of Morporkia

Of course, there was only one bed.

Sybil had taken care of his packing, because if Vimes had been the one to pack his own things he would’ve just rolled it all up in a ball and tossed it in his suitcase, and it would have been very unbecoming of a Duke to attend an Important Function in a wrinkly dress uniform. So when he propped the suitcase open on the aforementioned bed and a bunch of little square packets came tumbling out, Vimes’ first thought was to briefly, but very seriously, consider the possibility of divorcing the love of his life.

Vetinari shot a glance at Vimes' suitcase. “Either Sybil is being wildly optimistic, given that we’re both in our fifties. Or,” he continued, after a momentary pause to entertain a thought that seemingly just occurred to him, “perhaps a testimonial from someone with first-hand experience? In that case I would have to admit to being very impressed.”

Vimes threw a condom packet at Vetinari’s head, which the Patrician dodged serenely.

*

According to the dossier that Moist von Lipwig will find on his desk tomorrow morning, soon after he breaks into his third-story office window around a quarter past nine, the far-away state of Tropos was a coastal country many miles turnwise from the city of Ankh-Morpork—exactly too many miles, to be precise, as to be of little political or economic interest to Ankh-Morpork. Not that it was short of any goods to trade or customers to ply, but it really was just too far away to be worth the hassle. Its most profitable exports were nearly all too perishable to make the journey in a commodifiable state, even by Ankh-Morpork standards, and those items that weren’t were more easily acquired elsewhere.

Of course, depending on who you ask, nothing is ever really perishable (CMOT Dibbler) or everything was (Hɪᴍ). Nonetheless, Ankh-Morpork had little reason to pay attention to a country too far to trade with or put into debt.

However, with the advent of the steam locomotive, this and other places that were previously too far away were suddenly merely a long day’s ride or two across the continent, and overnight Tropos had become a very attractive prospective trading partner. Like a vulture circling down upon a hitherto unnoticed pile of fresh meat, Ankh-Morpork lost no time in extending a diplomatic hand, though perhaps it might more rightfully be called a tendril.

But years of isolation had left the country of Tropos with a few, rather eccentric traditions, which will require the current Patrician to leave the city in the care of Mr. Lipwig who, in his capacity as acting Patrician, will not Break Anything Important while the Patrician was away. He’ll be back in a week.

Oh, and the Commander of the Watch will be coming with him.

The dossier then proceeds to briefly but vividly describe what will happen to Moist von Lipwig in the event he failed to follow these very simple instructions, but that was a distraction from what Vimes considered, after having read his own copy of the file, the most terrifying part of the document.

Simply put, Tropos did not deal with foreign countries that failed to abide with their hallowed traditions—quite inconvenient for one Sam Vimes, but very convenient for certain narrative purposes.

*

“Eccentric traditions,” Vimes repeated, one hand firmly massaging his temple, the other crumpling the offending packet in question.

“Yes, Commander,” Vetinari said, in his customary seat behind his office desk. “The most immediately pertinent of which is their tradition to have the King and his protector joined in a conjugal bond. I believe that practice arose as a means of ensuring loyalty in the King’s most important subject.”

“Now hold on just a minute—”

His lordship continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Or subjects, to be more precise, though I don’t believe they expect us to abide with that part, as it’s less of a rule and more of a strategy on part of the King.”

Vimes felt his eyes threaten to pop out of his head. “But you’re not the king!”

“In this case, King is merely the term Tropos uses for its heads of state, as opposed to being a reference to any male sovereign or royal lineage. In fact, the present King of Tropos is a woman, and her first wife the captain of the Royal Guard. Her second wife is the general of their peacetime force, while her husband is—”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to think through the sheer haze of panic clouding his brain. “I’m not gonna marry you!”

“It’s merely politics, your Grace,” Vetinari replied, with that same infuriating serenity. “And it’s not really marriage. A civil partnership will do. So long as we present an appearance of deference to their traditions, they’re perfectly willing to negotiate trade relations with Ankh-Morpork–”

“I’m already married!” Vimes yelled, because maybe his lordship just forgot. Admittedly a rather unlikely situation, but he was gripped by a desperate urge to impress this knowledge upon the Patrician. “I am, in fact, very, _very_ married.”

For the first time during their conversation, something akin to contrition crossed Vetinari’s expression, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, with the air of someone imparting a terminal diagnosis.

“Actually, it was Lady Sybil’s suggestion.”

*

Vimes was in hell.

The weather was a lot milder than he’d expected, and there were more hors d’oeuvres here than in any version outlined by any one of the major religions of the Disc, but Vimes was certain that he must’ve died sometime during the uneventful train ride over to Fique, the capital city of Tropos.

A mere hour after they arrived, and they were already having to attend their welcoming function. There was simply no other scenario that could justify why he was now having to endure a whole week of nobby gatherings, rubbing elbows with Tropos’ high society: the Minister of Fisheries regaling him with figures of the season’s record yield of disinterested crab; the King’s second husband sharing a charming anecdote about how she proposed to him with a harpoon; or the head of one of the farming collectives extolling the virtues of their local produce, like the avokadoo, which apparently went well spread on some toast—

The hand resting on the small of Vimes’ back dug its nails sharply into his spine, and Vetinari smiled at the farmer in front of them, that thin smile he saved for when someone spoke out of turn during council budget meetings. The farmer’s mouth snapped shut mid-pitch, his sun-tanned skin suddenly turning three shades paler.

Vimes, for his part, kept his face admirably blank as Vetinari made noises excusing them from the conversation. He stood too close, his arm snaked around Vimes’ back as it was, standing close enough that Vimes could smell him _—_ the Patrician smelled like clean soap, and almonds, and the faintest hint of aftershave, unobtrusive and nearly undetectable if not for their proximity, but no less heady for it.

(This was a revised second edition of his thoughts, which were formerly that Vetinari smelled _nice, why in Om’s damned name does he smell so NICE—_ )

With a portion of Vimes’ higher brain functions focused on damage control, the Patrician easily steered the Commander away from the center of the atrium, towards a small alcove by the banisters.

Out of earshot of all the attendees, Vetinari leaned forward to hiss in his ear, “If you don’t stop looking as if you want to gore me through with your sword in the next five seconds, I will make this so much worse for you.”

A synapse short-circuited. Vimes swallowed his own tongue at the innuendo his brain just made.

Vetinari blinked at him for a second, before smiling.

“Why Commander, what a scandalous imagination you have.”

Vimes’ expression returned to looking like he wanted to kill him, and Vetinari sighed. “You were doing so well for a moment there,” he said, with put-upon exasperation.

Out of earshot, but not out of sight. From the outside, they must have looked like any married couple having a private conversation, but the Patrician felt that there was no sense in informing the Commander of this. There was such a thing as pushing one’s luck.

*

The Commander had resisted, and complained, and seriously considered resigning, but in the end he was a simple man, for whom all you had to do was dangle _for the good of the city_ in front of his face to get him aboard. Easy to convince, with the proper incentive, not to mention that he’d always been rather bad at saying no to his lordship. And with Lady Sybil gently but firmly pushing him out the front door, poor Mister Vimes never really stood a chance.

Vimes had decided that he would keep the party small, as small as he can get away with despite that the Patrician was one of their party. The less people to witness his utter and complete humiliation, the better, which is how Angua and Carrot came to be part of the delegation. The Patrician’s right-hand man, and in turn, Vimes’ most trusted men, with a couple of Dark Clerks to round out their complement.

Angua knew that the Patrician could handle his own protection detail single-handedly, but there were appearances to be maintained, and Angua didn’t mind the assignment. By all accounts, Tropos had balmy summer weather all year-round.

“Good thing you’re not the king of Ankh-Morpork,” she said, nudging Carrot with her elbow. They sat together at one end of the Patrician’s private train compartment, with the Commander and Vetinari sitting at the other end, involved in yet another argument. “You’ll never have to pretend to be married to the Commander.”

Carrot looked up from the report he was reading, and tilted his head thoughtfully. “The Commander did ask me what I thought of deposing the Patrician and promoting you to his post.”

“Oh,” Angua said. “What did you say?”

“The Patrician would have to commit some sort of grievous offense to justify his removal—”

“To which the Commander would have responded that having him pretend to be his husband certainly counts as some sort of grievous offense,” Angua said.

“And to which I pointed out that, technically, the Patrician had asked him, and the Commander technically said yes, so there’s technically no coercion involved to which we can hold his lordship technically accountable,” Carrot finished.

Angua pushed her seat back as far as it would go and lay back, hands tucked behind her head. “If Vimes quits and promotes me, does that mean I have to pretend to be married to Vetinari?”

Carrot looked down the aisle where the Commander and the Patrician were still arguing. “If that had been the case,” he said, “I get the feeling that somehow, the Patrician would’ve found a way to send me in his place.”

*

“But at least Carrot and Angua wouldn’t have to pretend to be sleeping together,” Vimes said, hours after the party, rubbing at his eyes, idly contemplating the ceiling above him.

Lying next to him in bed, naked but for the reading glasses perched on his nose, Vetinari turned the page of his newspaper, and asked, “Oh, was that pretend just now?”

Vimes resisted the urge to throw the pillow at his face, but only because said pillow was resting very comfortably under his own head. “Shut up.”

“Well, you were very good at…pretending,” Vetinari said, his expression impossibly blank. “Although I still think Sybil expects too much of us—”

Vimes threw the pillow at him.

*

( _—_ _Please stand by for a brief intermission._ )

*

“...Ahem.”

There was some polite but rather aggressive coughing from one of the guests, who were pointedly not looking in their direction. 

“You were doing so well for a moment there,” Vetinari had said at the party, sounding for all the world as if Vimes were inconveniencing him on purpose.

Surprisingly, this did nothing for Vimes’ current mood, but he was resolved to do as he was told. Having previously established that this was, in fact, hell on Disc, Vimes didn’t have a vivid enough imagination to visualise what _worse_ entailed, but he trusted his lordship to keep his word.

For the rest of the evening, he didn’t _not_ look like he wanted to behead Vetinari with his sword, but he didn’t look like he _definitely_ wanted to behead Vetinari with his sword either, his expression straddling a line of murderous ambiguity that looked remarkably similar to indigestion—which Vimes thought he ought to be commended for, considering that Vetinari’s damnable touches continued for the rest of the evening: a hand on the small of his back, or resting softly against his arm, or in the crook of his elbow.

Vimes had even managed a _dance_ , a feat which he survived by deliberately letting his brain cloud with static. _It's not really dancing,_ he didn't think, because he wasn't thinking at all, _I'm just supporting his bad leg._ Vetinari later asked him to pass on his thanks to Lady Sybil for her waltzing lessons, complimenting his graceful leading, a claim which Vimes could not refute as a result of having forgotten the event in an effort to preserve his sanity.

(And all throughout the evening, those _godsdamned touches_. Gentle, but possessive, and entirely proprietorial, yet far from being unpleasant, Vimes could privately admit that the real problem was more how comfortable they had felt, how much he didn’t actually mind them.)

“Well, I suppose that wasn’t a total loss,” Vetinari informed him, upon returning to their suite. “I managed to convince the Minister of Agriculture that the long journey over simply disagreed with you, and that you didn’t actually want to attack him with a butter knife.”

Vimes closed the door behind him, glaring at Vetinari as he came in.

“Lying to our new trading partners already, your lordship?” he asked, his already frayed patience running thin. The minister’s anecdotes had been very long and excruciatingly detailed in their descriptions of geese husbandry, and he was in no mood to be lectured.

“Oh, they may as well start getting used to dealing with Ankh-Morpork,” Vetinari said, stepping forward into Vimes’ space. His hands reached out, smoothing out the collar of Vimes’ dress shirt, before making to straighten his cravat, where Vimes had pulled it loose.

Vimes was going to bat his hands away, any day now. “Whatever you’re playing at, stop it.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Vetinari, his long, thin fingers still as a knife.

“Don’t play stupid, sir,” said Vimes. He doubted that the Patrician had ever been able to do it convincingly even once his whole life.

Vetinari didn’t answer right away. Slowly, he pulled at the silk around Vimes' neck, until the knot was tight against his throat. “In that case, I only think it fair to ask the same of you,” he said, making no move to pull away even as what already flimsy pretense he had to touch Vimes faded by the second.

Vimes grabbed Vetinari’s wrists, the thin bones feeling oddly fragile in his grip. “You are _infuriating_.”

A part of Vimes sincerely thought he was going to sock Vetinari in the face, consequences be damned. It was probably the same part of his brain that had been doing its best to ignore Vetinari’s little touches all evening, practicing denial as if it were a competitive sport. But this part of his brain apparently hadn’t been consulted in the decision-making process, because he was suddenly pushing Vetinari against the back of the door of their bedroom.

The Patrician met the kiss readily, his lips pressing against Vimes’ with surprising gentility, even as Vimes made a frustrated noise against his mouth and pinned Vetinari’s wrists to the wall beside his head.

After a few seconds of this, Vimes pulled away angrily and asked, “ _Why am I kissing you?!_ ”

“Sam,” Vetinari answered, with the patience of glaciers. “I truly don’t know how to convince you of this, but I can’t read your mind.”

Vimes growled, and kissed him again.

*

An hour later saw Vimes smoking a cigar out their window while the Patrician sat at his writing desk, a robe pulled loosely over his shoulders as he went over some paperwork.

He supposed it was a bit much to expect the Patrician to stay idle for very long. Even…that bit they just did counted as work, probably. The only time Vimes had ever seen him in any true state of respite was when he was stuffed to the gills with arsenic, although given that resisting assassination attempts was part of the job, that technically counted as work too.

But still, it felt different to have Vetinari here, like the air around them was differently charged than when he was in front of Vetinari’s desk to make a report, or when he stood guard over his shoulder. There was no safe distance here. 

“You are off-duty, Vimes,” Vetinari said, not bothering to look up from the undoubtedly important piece of paper he was writing on.

Vimes blows a cloud of smoke out the window. “I’m not doing anything.”

“I can hear you thinking at me from over here.”

He rolled his eyes. “And you’re doing what, some light post-coital paperwork?

The Patrician’s mouth twitched, and he took off the reading glasses perched on his nose and folded them up in his hands. “If you knew anything about my position, you would know there is always paperwork to be catching up on.”

“You, however, are off-duty, Sam,” he repeated. “There’s really no need to stand guard.”

“I found five knives in your robes,” Vimes pointed out, not a little proud of the way his voice sounded almost nonchalant about undressing the Patrician. “You’re hardly in any position to lecture anyone about being paranoid.”

“I’m a tyrant,” he said. “I can lecture anyone about anything.”

“Abuse of power, that is,” Vimes grumbled under his breath.

“It’s not as though you’ve ever minded my abusing my position before.”

“That’s cause you’re a bloody tyrant _,_ ” he said.

Vetinari smiled at him. “So glad we have that established.”

*

That being out of the way, there was still, of course, the rest of the week’s nobby functions to attend. They passed mostly without incident, the exception being the soiree held by the Minister of Transportation the second day. By eyewitness accounts, Captain Angua von Uberwald of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch had, to the bewildered surprise of guests, grabbed a tray of pickles from a passing waiter and stuck her face in the platter upon the entrance of the Commander and the Patrician to the party hall.

(Angua had stopped mid-conversation with Carrot. Her nose twitched. Her face slowly turned towards the entrance of the hall. Her eyes met the Commander’s, with dawning horror mirrored in both pairs.)

“Forgive us, your Excellency. Captain Angua is merely performing a traditional Ankh-Morporkian salute,” Vetinari explained in sotto voce to the Minister and his husband, as the Captain continued to bury her nose in the plate of pickles. “An expression of...respect to one’s superior, carried over to our fair city by her Überwaldean citizens. Fermentation is a revered practice there.”

“Of course, of course,” the Minister had replied, politely ignoring the interesting purple shade of Commander Vimes’ face, as he kept to himself a comment about what odd traditions these Ankh-Morpork folks had. Positively bizarre, if you asked him.

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for a fic exchange last year that I shamefully reneged on, for which I sincerely apologize. sorry, intended recipient! while this is not the V/V fic people may have been expecting from me, I just needed to finish _something_ , and hope you all enjoy this humble offering.
> 
> all my usual thanks to kiran for taking time out of her busy SPN brain-losing schedule to read this.


End file.
